


Mornings After

by dancingloki



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Awkwardness, Canon Compliant, Fluff, M/M, Morning After, Steve Rogers is a Terrible Liar
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-05
Packaged: 2018-12-24 10:05:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12010452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancingloki/pseuds/dancingloki
Summary: "So I made breakfast, if you guys, y'know, eat that sort of thing."one of many fics that have been written about exactly what Sam meant by that little dig





	Mornings After

Steven Grant Rogers woke up in a panic and in a stranger’s bed, not in that order.

The panic didn’t set in for a couple of minutes, not until he took stock of his surroundings. He was in an unfamiliar (but comfortable and tastefully decorated) bedroom, and his head was swimming with the foggy kind of feeling that most people get from a hangover, but which he generally got after a night of very bad dreams.

Something from the hallway smelled  _ absolutely fucking amazing _ , nothing seemed to be trying to kill him at the moment, so he relaxed a little and prodded his pillow back into shape absent-mindedly while he tried to struggle his way back to the surface and remember where he was and how he got there.

This bed was  _ crazy _ comfortable.

His mattress at home was both way too soft and really lumpy—this one felt like one of the fancy high-tech ortho-something ones from the late-night infomercials where the lady jumped up and down next to a glass of wine, which Steve always watched with the kind of morbid fascination that leads people to film train crashes, always half-wondering (in spite of knowing that it was all pre-recorded) if this would finally be the time where she  _ finally _ kicks the damn thing over.

Insomnia and Steve were not getting along. Or maybe they were getting along too well, he wasn’t sure what was the right way to phrase that.

This bed though—this bed was just fantastic. Reminds him of what Sam had said, about coming back from deployment, this is probably the kind of thing…

That he...would have….

Bought…

Ah.

Right, because he...went to Sam’s work, and they were talking, and chatting, and Sam was being very friendly, and charming, and when he suggested they go out to get a bite to eat together, it would have been rude for Steve to say no, and Steve may be many improbable and ridiculous things, but he’s not  _ rude _ .

“Hey sunshine,” Sam said cheerfully, a  _ literal _ spring in his step as he bounced into the room. “Sleep well?”

Steve tripped over his tongue a couple of times trying to say “good morning” or “yes thank you” or  _ something _ else coherent, but Sam seemed to find that endearing, somehow, because he just beamed at Steve and plopped himself down on the bed next to him.

Sam leaned in for a kiss, and the moment his lips touched Steve’s (soft and tender, and sweet, oh god, so sweet, who taught Sam how to kiss like that, Steve had to send them a fruit basket or maybe a  _ medal _ ) two things happened at once: a sudden and  _ vivid _ mental re-play of how the rest of the evening had gone after leaving the restaurant, and the realization that he wasn’t wearing any clothes.

“I made breakfast,” Sam murmured against his open mouth.

“What?” Steve mumbled back, still punch-drunk on the taste of Sam’s kiss.

“Breakfast,” Sam laughed. “You know? Food that you eat in the morning? Most important meal of the day, and all that crap? Can’t be saving the world on an empty stomach.” He leaned in to kiss Steve again, but the warm fuzzy glow in Steve’s gut came to a screeching and unpleasant halt, beaten to death by a baseball bat over the head, wielded by the mental personification of ‘Steve Rogers,  _ Look At Your Life _ .’

This is Sam,  _ Sam _ , Sam of the warm eyes and perfect smile, Sam who  _ understands _ things, Sam who adopts annoying strangers and talks to them like they’re actual people instead of capital-I Icons, Sam who probably feeds stray cats and volunteers at the soup kitchen on weekends, and Steve is—Steve is  _ Steve _ .

Steve is a walking disaster area, Steve is a ten-car pileup waiting to happen, Steve is that obnoxious song with the twangy guitar that Natasha kept playing over and over three missions ago when she was threatening to make him watch some movie about fighter pilots and beach volleyball, Steve is everyone he’s ever loved dead or dying slowly, and he can’t risk dragging beautiful, perfect Sam into the steaming, shitty mudhole that is his life.

He tensed up, turning away, and Sam pulled back with a hurt and confused expression.

Quickly, before Sam could say something else charming and romantic and change his mind, Steve blurted out, “I gotta go.”

There was pain in Sam’s face as he tried to pick a response, but before he had the chance, Steve had figured out his excuse.

“I got a mission,” he stammered. “Phone rang while you were in the kitchen.”

“I didn’t hear it,” Sam frowned.

“It’s on vibrate,” Steve said, way too quickly.

“And you don’t have ten minutes for an omelette? It’s already cooked.”

“They need me, like, half an hour ago. I’m so sorry.”

“Sure, okay. Gotta do what you gotta do.”

“I’m really,  _ really _ sorry, Sam.”

“Yeah, you said.”

Sam stood up and retreated to the bedroom door, watching with his arms folded across his chest as Steve fumbled around collecting his clothes.

He’d come up with a plausible description of his imaginary mission—where he was going, why, how long he’d be gone, but Sam didn’t ask. Wiggled his way into his jeans, managed (by some miracle) to locate both his socks, pulled his t-shirt over his head as he squirmed past Sam out into the hallway.

The food smelled so good that his stomach rumbled audibly, making him blush. Sam made a little face but didn’t say anything, just trailed behind him as he bumbled his way to the front door.

“Somebody picking you up?”

“Uh...yeah, they’re...I’m meeting ‘em at the main road, I thought that would be easier.”

“Sure.”

“Well, um…” Steve floundered for a second before rallying. “Thanks. Thank you, for—for a great night.”

“Sure,” Sam said again, his voice softer this time. Steve gave him an awkward little half-wave and left as fast as he could without breaking into a run. He made it all the way to the sidewalk and to the next house down the street before he heard Sam shouting after him.

“Steve!”

He turned around, heart skipping a beat, only to see Sam standing in the doorway, waving at him with one hand, Steve’s jacket in the other. He jogged back towards the house, catching his toe on a busted sidewalk slab and almost faceplanting into a bush.

“Thanks, sorry,” he said, at the same time Sam told him, “Left it in the hallway—”

As Sam passed the jacket over, Steve’s phone fell out of a pocket onto the ground.

The phone on which he allegedly got the call about the mission, while Sam was in the kitchen, cooking him a delicious breakfast, which he refused to eat because he’s a terrible, terrible, bad person.

Sam’s eyebrows shot up through his hairline, but, in a small act of mercy, he didn’t call Steve out for the (obvious,  _ obvious _ ) lie; Steve flushed beet red and snatched the phone up from the grass, tucking it into his pants pocket.

“Good luck with your mission,” Sam told him, sounding as much sad as sarcastic. “Maybe hit me up when you get back.”

“I’ll do that,” said Steve, who will never, ever do that.

***

“So seriously though, what crawled up your ass and died?” Natasha asked him when they were still about fifty miles from the base in New Jersey, after at least half an hour of awkward silence.

“What do you mean?” Steve tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“I just found out I’ve been working for Hydra for two years without knowing it, isn’t that enough?”

She sighed theatrically. “Fine, whatever, if you don’t want to tell me I won’t force you.”

“First time for everything,” Steve muttered under his breath.

***

“Everyone we know is trying to kill us,” Natasha said bluntly.

Sam looked between her and Steve, and said, “Not everyone.”

Steve thought that he saw just the briefest hint of hesitation before he welcomed them in, but he was probably imagining it.

***

“So are we gonna talk about it?” Steve asked, trying not to sound petulant. They were waist-deep in plans for getting Sam’s wings back, and it had taken Steve several hours to finally get him alone by cornering him in the kitchen after they’d taken a break for lunch. The most unnerving thing about it was how normal Sam was acting; Steve had honestly expected passive-aggression, maybe a cold shoulder the likes of which would make him think longingly of the North Atlantic ocean, but Sam seemed completely determined to pretend that nothing had ever happened.

“I don’t really think that there’s anything to talk about.”

“C’mon, man, don’t be like that.”

Sam sighed heavily and put his plate down in the sink. “I just...I don’t understand why you felt like you had to lie to me.”

The bottom dropped out of Steve’s stomach.

“I’m a grown adult,” Sam continued. “If it was some, I dunno, 40’s gay panic thing, or you were experimenting and didn’t like it, or just lost interest, I would have—you could have just  _ told _ me, ‘thanks but no thanks,’ I wouldn’t have been shitty about it. You didn’t need to make up some weird excuse to leave. I honestly thought you had more respect for me than that.”

Oh, no. Oh dear. This had backfired badly and there was no plane nearby for him to jump out of to escape. He’d been expecting a lecture on how dare he turn up here for help after being such a hound, not—was this what it felt like for other people when he did the ‘You’ve Disappointed Captain America’ thing? Christ, no wonder Tony hated him!

“Yeah, I bet you wish you hadn’t opened your big mouth now, huh,” Sam teased him, suddenly grinning. “If you could see your face…”

Steve gaped. “Is that—did you—were you  _ messing _ with me?!” he squawked.

Sam shrugged. “Maybe a little bit. I did mean what I said, though. I dunno, man, I can’t figure you out.”

“I—” Steve shut his big mouth, feeling his face burning, and tried to herd his thoughts into line. “Sam, God’s honest truth is that I ran out on you because I was afraid of doing exactly this.” Raised eyebrows encouraged him to explain. “What I said in the living room earlier—I didn’t want to pull you into my world, you got out for a reason, and you’re such a—such a  _ good guy _ , with a nice, normal, stable life, and I’m so—such a—stop laughing at me!”

Sam was shaking, collapsed against the counter. When he eventually caught his breath, he said, still chuckling, “Man, doesn’t the martyr act ever get boring? Seriously. Look at you, all ‘I’m Steve Rogers, I’m Captain America, and I’m not allowed to have nice things in my life ever because I have to maintain the right Suffering Quotient otherwise I can’t stay convincing myself that I’m responsible for the sins of the entire fucking species.’ ”

“I do not sound like that.”

“You absolutely do.”

“Oh, go—go jump in a lake.”

Sam lost it laughing again, and Steve pouted, crossing his arms over his chest, until he stopped.

“It’s a good thing you have people like me and Nat to keep you grounded and nip this god complex of yours in the bud,” he finally told Steve, shaking his head fondly, and sidled up to kiss him, very gently, right on the corner of his mouth.

One kiss turned into two, into three, into Sam pressed up against Steve’s chest, arms locked around his waist, nibbling gently at his lower lip as they breathed each other in.

“Captain America needs my help,” he told Steve softly. “And Steve Rogers needs a lil’ somethin’ somethin’ else, and fortunately for  _ you _ , I’m qualified for both.”

“That’s fascinating, but we’re kind of on a schedule here, so if you’re done necking like teenagers, I cracked the guard rotation,” Nat yelled from the other room.

“Mind your own business, Natasha,” Steve yelled back, and kissed Sam one more time just to make the point.

***

“So when I asked you if that was your first kiss since 1945—”

“Mind your own business, Natasha.”

**Author's Note:**

> something something DANGAH ZOWN


End file.
